HOMOSASSA SHADOWS (7 page)

She tried to put the renewed sensation out of her mind. “And what exactly is a bundle burial?”

Hackett gave her a wry grin. “You won’t like this. These Safety Harbor people weren’t the only ones to use bundle burials. Anyway, the corpse was kept until it decayed, then the remaining flesh was boiled off, the bones arranged properly, bound by cordage in fiber mats and re-buried. It’s called a secondary burial. Nice, right?”

Brandy swallowed. She tried not to picture the process or the priest who must have supervised this grisly practice. And yet was the procedure really more repugnant than the modern embalmer’s art, the eviscerated, visually enhanced cadaver in its ornate casket? “I guess it actually shows respect for the dead,” she said softly. She became aware of swarms of mosquitoes, no longer deterred by the repellent.

“These folks were not pure primitives. The Spanish recorded a lot about them.”

Brandy glanced at the re-covered shaft. “It’s good to learn about them, I suppose. We owe them that.” She still felt overpowered by an aura of death. Years earlier on a vacation to England with her father, she had this feeling in Bath when she toured an underground passage where archaeologists had discovered first century Roman skeletons. She had fled back into the daylight.

Hackett did not seem to feel the same suffocating presence of death. Instead, he calmly replaced the plastic. “Fishhawk not only believes we shouldn’t study burials. He believes the ghosts of the dead still linger, and they can make you sick. Most traditionals think that.”

“I can see Fishhawk’s point.”

“Well, it’s not a stupid belief. The dead do cause disease. Not these guys, though. They’ve been gone for about four centuries.”

She watched his expression carefully. “Do you think this find could have anything to do with Timothy Hart’s search?”

He gave a surprised shake of his head. “Not a chance. No real money here.”

Grif took her arm as they turned toward the downward path. “I’ve always wanted to talk to a genuine archaeologist. I appreciate the tour,” she said.

He threw back his head and laughed. “I’m not Indiana Jones, you know. In Florida we barely stay ahead of the bulldozers. Mostly we inventory what developers turn up.” His expression grew more somber. “It takes years of study. For my job, I had to have a graduate degree in Archaeology with a specialization in Historical Archaeology. Takes years to repay that cost. Then two and half more years of full-time experience.” His tone became sharper. “And then we don’t get rich. Far from it. Sometime soon, I’d like to pack it in here. Try working in a more receptive environment.” Jaw set, he swatted a cluster of mosquitoes lighting on his arm. “Mosquitoes will eat you alive here. Get back to the boat while I collect the pottery fragments I stored in the shack.”

Among a buzzing swarm, Brandy descended to the riverbank. Bibi sat in Hackett’s boat, picking at a torn fingernail and looking bored.

“Fascinating stuff here,” Brandy said. “But a trifle eerie.”

Bibi pressed her lips together and frowned. “Dr. Hackett’s wasted professionally in Florida. He earned scholarships and worked like a dog at odd jobs to earn his degrees. He never had it easy. This kind of repair work wasn’t what he studied for. He’s got bigger ambitions.”

“Oh.” Brandy stood next to Grif s boat, not eager to start back through the narrow, unmarked channel on her own. “What would he rather do?”

Bibi gave Brandy a knowing look. “He should be in Mexico or Guatemala. He says exciting work’s going on there in Maya research. He’s only an associate professor at the University, but he should be a full professor.” She studied Brandy for a few seconds, lapsed into silence, and resumed work on her broken nail.

Brandy crawled back into her own boat and waited until they heard Grif inching back down the hill, carrying a large canvas bag. Gently he handed it to Bibi, who set it on the deck. As Grif prepared to shove her boat off the beach, Brandy scrambled out to help him. “Remember, I hope to meet Fishhawk’s wife,” she said.

Grif hesitated. “Fishhawk said Annie’s arriving tomorrow,” he said finally. “If you go to the camp, it’s probably best that I come along. Give me your number and I’ll phone you.” Brandy glanced up at the lean, brown face. Compared to John’s, now so withdrawn, Grif s looked welcoming. She reached into her boat and dug into the canvas bag she’d set on deck and handed him her card, Carole’s phone number scribbled on the back.

But the image of a third face lingered in her mind, an older one, more vulnerable. “I’ll be in Homosassa a few more days,” she added. “I’m not finished with Timothy Hart. My editor’s interested. I think everyone’s too eager to say he was dumb. I don’t believe he was. Gullible, maybe. I think he learned something about this area that excited him. Probably from that journal his sister described. She said a soldier kept it. Maybe it’s because of that journal, he’s dead.”

Hackett cocked his head. “That’s a serious charge.”

“It’s what I think. I intend to find out.”

He lifted the bow of her boat and they began shoving it off the riverbank. Just before the pontoon boat floated free, she climbed in. Grifs brows lifted as he gave the hull a final push. “Your looking into Hart’s death could be dangerous,”

Brandy shrugged. For the first time he sounded like John. “It won’t be the first time I’ve poked around in a murder case.”

As Hackett heaved his own craft into the water and backed around to start for Homosassa, Bibi knelt beside a box on the deck and lifted out paint brushes, a screen, and picks, checking that they had what they needed. At some point he would expose to sunlight the long dead. A dark thought.

Still, as Brandy chugged back down the winding river after him, her mind shifted from Hart to the native Indians and then back again to the archaeologist. A rugged, knowledgeable fellow. She wondered how Hack-ett’s former wife had let him get away.

As they cleared the Salt River, and Grif veered off toward Alma May’s house on Tiger Tail Bay, she glanced at her watch. Already 12:45 P.M. As she eased into the no-wake manatee zone, she picked up her cell. Two pontoon boats and an inboard cruised passed in the weekend river traffic. She dialed John. No answer. Maybe he had decided to fish, but he should be ready for lunch. When she swerved into the mouth of Carole’s canal, she saw him sitting on a plastic chair beside the concrete bank, a line in the water, a bucket beside him.

“Mullet fishing,” he called as she reversed and pulled into the boat slip. “Got a nice one. Must be two pounds.” He stood up, drew in his line, and removed the plug of fatback from the hook.

Brandy tied up and hurried down the dock to peer into the bucket. “You want it for tonight? I’ve got cornmeal and onions. I could make hush puppies.”

He rubbed his forehead and started back to the front door beside her, carrying the bucket. “Don’t I wish. No such luck. Had a call from my assistant on the job. He’s got a problem with what a contractor is doing to a bearing wall. I need to check it early tomorrow morning.” Inside the screened porch he set down the bucket of water with its great fish.

Brandy looked up at him. “And that means?”

“I’ve got to leave. I need to pick up some papers at the apartment before I go to the site.” She knew he meant his Tampa apartment, not theirs in Gainesville.

In the small kitchen Brandy lifted ham and cheese slices out of the refrigerator. “You’ve got time for a sandwich and a glass of iced tea.” She decided to tell him about Fishhawk, although he hadn’t seemed interested. “I interviewed a Seminole from the Tampa Cultural Center this morning. A fascinating guy. He’s called a spiritual advisor.” She hesitated before mentioning Hackett—and then wondered why. She had done nothing wrong. She hurried out to the porch and set their sandwiches and iced tea on the wicker table. “A University of Florida archaeologist took me to see him.” John probably pictured an archaeologist as an elderly academic with a grizzled beard. Just as well. “The Indian’s camping on Tiger Tail Island.”

For a minute John stopped eating. “You’re talking about the island where you found the body? Bran, you sometimes get in trouble on these stories. Promise you’ll be careful.”

She nodded. “Not to worry. I plan to talk to Alma May Flint again, like I said. Then I’ll see if I can wring some information out of homicide. Guess who’s on the case? Jeremiah Strong. We met him in Cedar Key a couple of years ago.” She pulled her note pad from her canvas bag and patted it. “There’s something odd about the whole situation. Timothy Hart’s dead from unknown causes. I don’t think he wanted to buy Mrs. Flint’s property for fishing. He thought he was going to find something valuable in Homosassa. Now the old lady and her friend are searching the island. The Indian just decided to camp out there, although he’s as welcome as the small pox. I’m curious about them all.”

John brushed fingers across his mustache. “I hope you’ll leave the investigation to professionals. I remember Strong. A good guy, and savvy. He doesn’t need your help. He’ll give you the story when he’s ready.”

Her gaze settled on the note pad. “I won’t be foolish. I just want a few questions answered. Don’t worry.”

John laid a hand over hers. “But I do.” He sighed and carried his plate into the kitchen. “And I especially worry about us.” She shrunk before the earnest expression in his eyes. “Please think about what I asked yesterday. Talk to mothers you respect.”

“Okay,” Brandy said, not convincingly.

At the door John stooped to pet Meg. As he put his arms around Brandy to say good-bye, she wondered what was happening to them. She had been deeply in love with John. In most ways she still was. She remembered their joy in exploring Florida rivers together, holding hands at orchestra concerts, their pleasure in reading the same books. She remembered their honeymoon in the funky historic inn near Mount Dora, tender nights in tiny apartments from Tavares to Gainesville. But she wanted to control the timing of a family herself. “You know, I’m the one who’d make the sacrifices,” she added, submerging a twinge of guilt. “This is not the right time.”

His dark eyes turned graver. “You need to find the time, Bran.” He walked to the minivan and looked back from the driveway. “Go on while you’re here and get your story. Do your own thing.”

“Call,” Brandy said, “about next weekend.”

She stood, hands plunged into her pockets, watching John’s minivan pull out of the carport.

CHAPTER 5
 

When Brandy picked up the kitchen phone and dialed Mrs. Flint, the old lady answered. After identifying herself, Brandy began with a statement she thought might even be true. “I’m working on a story that may help you. But I need to talk to you again. Could I come out in about thirty minutes?”

Alma May paused. “I reckon,” she said at last. “Might as well. Everyone else has.”

“Sheriff’s Office?”

“A whole battalion,” Alma May said and hung up.

By 2:45 P.M. Brandy drew into the dock at Mrs. Flint’s. She had expected to see Alma May’s boat tied to a post, but a Sheriff’s Office patrol craft had also pulled in on the other side. Getting crowded here, she thought, as she looped a line over a cleat near the end of the pier.

As soon as she stepped onto the porch, she could hear Alma May’s shrill voice through the open door. “All this trouble on top of the problem with your old man!”

The answering voice soothed. “This will be over quite soon. And I’ll handle Tugboat.”

“It gets my goat.”

Brandy rapped on the door. “Mrs. Flint?”

Alma May answered, “Come on in. Rest of the world has.”

In the living room Melba Grapple raised her well-coifed head from the newspaper and faced Brandy with a well-bred smile. She was seated on the couch, leafing through the day’s Chronicle, a cigarette burning between slim fingers. Although her features were jagged, almost eagle-like, they were somehow genteel. Under her veneer of understated elegance, Melba had a jaunty, raw-boned look, like steel under silk. An odd friend for Alma May. What had Alma May meant about Melba’s husband? Tugboat? Melba didn’t seem like the wife of a man called “Tugboat.”

Alma May faced Brandy from the kitchen doorway with a resigned expression. “I suppose you’ve got a passel of questions, too.” Brandy slipped a note pad out of her canvas bag. “Not many. Any calls about the house?”

“We aren’t listing it again until the Sheriff’s Office is finished here,” Melba said. “We’re only asking seventy-five thousand. Of course, that’s because transportation is by boat only. But it’s quite a nice vacation place. Plenty of room. Three bedrooms, two baths, desalination, historic. Not to mention the river access and view.”

Brandy made quick notes, then watched the two faces closely. “I thought I’d focus on the history of Tiger Tail Island. Since your house is the only one on it, the story should arouse interest in the house. I can add a lot of good detail if we can find the nineteenth century journal Mr. Hart said he had. It’s probably connected to the island, since he came here for some kind of search. Did he mention a journal?”

Mrs. Flint paused before she shook her head. “Don’t recollect such a thing.” Her eyes sought her friend’s.

Melba nodded in agreement. “Of course, we weren’t in his confidence, and that’s a fact. I scarcely knew the man.” She still gripped the newspaper but her eyes were on Brandy. She didn’t notice the burned down cigarette until the ash reached her fingers, and then she quickly stubbed it out in an oyster shell ashtray already dotted with scorch marks.

Brandy was certain the two knew something, but she did not want to badger them. “If the Sheriff s Office has finished with Hart’s room,” Brandy asked, “I’d like to see it, too. Considering the circumstances, any-

one interested in the house will want to know something about the man who just died here.”

Alma May nodded toward a door off the hall. “Cops is out tramping through the brush right now. That detective, too. Don’t know what he thinks they’ll find. They was in the bedroom long enough. Nothing to see. I got to get the room ready to rent again. Got to clean and set out fresh towels and the like.” She lifted her shoulders in a helpless gesture. “I reckon it won’t hurt to let you in, just this once.”